


40 Million Miles

by ranilwoozlib



Category: The Martian - Andy Weir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:37:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7835917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranilwoozlib/pseuds/ranilwoozlib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark Watney's long journey home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	40 Million Miles

LOG ENTRY: MISSION DAY 687  
That “687” caught me off guard for a minute. On Hermes, we track time by mission days. It may be Sol 549 down on Mars, but its Mission Day 687 up here. And you know what? It doesn’t matter what time it is on Mars because I’m not there!  
Oh my god. I’m really not on Mars anymore. I can tell because there’s no gravity and there are other humans around. I’m still adjusting.  
If this were a movie, everyone would have been in the airlock, and there would have been high fives all around. But it didn’t pan out that way.  
I broke two ribs during the MAV ascent. They were sore the whole time, but really started screaming when Vogel pulled us into the airlock by the tether. I didn’t want to distract the people who were saving my life, so I muted my mic and screamed like a little girl.  
It’s true you know. In space, no one can hear you scream like a little girl.  
Once they got me into Airlock 2, they opened the inner door and I was finally aboard again. Hermes was still in Vacuo, so we didn’t have to cycle the airlock.  
Beck told me to go limp and pushed me down the corridor toward his quarters (which serve as the ship’s “sick bay” when needed).  
Vogel went the other direction and closed the outer VAL door.  
Once Beck and I got to his quarters, we waited for the ship to re- pressurize. Hermes had enough spare air to refill the ship two more times if needed. It’d be a pretty shitty long-range ship if it couldn't recover from a decompression.  
After Johanssen gave us the all clear, Dr. Bossy-Beck made me wait while he first took off his suit, then took off mine. After he took my helmet off, he looked shocked. I thought maybe I had a major head wound or something, but it turns out it was the smell.  
It's been awhile since I washed...anything.  
After that, it was X-rays and chest bandages while the rest of the crew checked the ship for damage.  
Then came the (painful) high fives, followed by people staying as far away from my stench as possible. We had a few minutes of reunion before Beck shuttled everyone out. He gave me painkillers and told me to shower as soon as I could move my arms. So now I'm waiting for the drugs to kick in.  
I think about the sheer number of people who pulled together just to save my sorry ass and I can barely comprehend it. My crewmates sacrificed a year of their lives to come back for me. Countless people at NASA worked day and night to invent rover and MAV modifications. All of JPL busted their asses to make a probe that was destroyed on launch. Then, instead of giving up they made another probe to resupply Hermes. The China National Space Administration abandoned a project they had worked on for years just to provide a booster.  
The cost for my survival must have been hundreds of millions of dollars. All to save one dorky botanist. Why bother?  
Well, okay. I know the answer to that. Part of it might be what I represent: progress, science, and the interplanetary future we’ve dreamed of for centuries. But really, they did it because every human being has a basic instinct to help each other out. It might not seem that way sometimes, but it's true.  
If a hiker gets lost in the mountains, people will coordinate a search. If a train crashes, people will line up to give blood. If an earthquake levels a city, people all over the world will send emergency supplies. This is so fundamentally human that it’s found in every culture without exception. Yes, there are assholes who just don’t care, but they’re massively outnumbered by the people who do. And because of that, I had billions of people on my side.   
Pretty cool, eh?  
Anyway, my ribs hurt like hell, my vision is still blurry from acceleration sickness, I’m really hungry, it’ll be another 211 days before I’m back on earth, and, apparently, I smell like a skunk took a shit on some sweat socks.  
This is the happiest day of my life.  
……  
But happiest day of his life or not, Mark Watney really did need a shower. He gingerly closed his laptop, even that small movement of his arms made him cringe. Unfortunately for him (and the rest of his crew) a shower was still out of the question. He figured he had about half an hour until his meds kicked in. With nothing to do but wait he leaned back in the cot that was now taking up most of Beck’s room.  
He couldn’t help but think about how good he had gotten at sitting and waiting over the past 18 months. Before Mars, patience had never been a virtue he possessed in large measures. Maybe this whole ordeal had been good for him after all.  
His eyes scanned the wall, looking for any interesting pieces of decor to keep himself occupied. A small portion of wall was covered in pictures, but instead of containing Beck’s sister and parents, as he had expected them to, they were-   
“Marissa” he said out loud.   
When you’re stranded on a planet, completely alone, it is perfectly acceptable to talk to yourself. But maybe now that he was in a cramped ship with five other people he ought to break that habit.  
Even as that thought crossed his mind, Beck poked his head in the door. Watney jumped.  
“Did you say something?” Beck asked, trying his best not to breathe in the stink of a man who had barely washed himself over the course of the last year.  
“No,” Watney replied, still jumpy, “But why do you have a picture of Martinez’s wife and kid on your wall?”  
“Oh, uh, yours and Martinez’s bunks both have a heating problem, they pretty much try to cook people alive, so he’s been living in here. All of the medical stuff is still in here though so this is where you’ll be staying for the time being as well.”  
“What about you, man? Have you and Martinez been sleeping together? I never pegged either of you as that sort, he’s married and you had a thing with Johanssen but whatever floats your boat I guess.  
Beck blushed.  
“Actually that’s who I’ve been sleeping with, Johanssen, I mean. And sheesh, if Martinez were to leave his wife for anybody it’d be you. You two already act like an old married couple.”  
“Johanssen? And Lewis is okay with it? Nice, man. Million mile high club.” Watney, unknowingly made the same joke Martinez had weeks earlier, and painfully lifted his hand for a high five.  
Beck ignored him and rolled his eyes as he walked out of the room.  
Finally, enough time had passed that Watney could move his arms (and every other part of his body for that matter) without crying or passing out or both. He sat up (cringing at the pain it caused his ribs) and somehow (mostly thanks to the gallons of adrenaline he was still running on) managed to stand up and make it to the shower.  
Thankfully, the ship was spinning again so he had some gravity (it was set to .4, probably for his benefit, as he doubted he could function in full gravity as the crew had been doing). The thought made him smile. He had a crew again.  
He cringed again as he reached out to turn on the faucet. He stripped off his clothes and stepped under the stream of hot water. It was the greatest thing he had ever felt.   
Technically, each crew member was only supposed to take five minutes in the shower every day but he was sure the crew wouldn’t mind. Hell, he hadn’t showered in almost 600 days, he had 2700 shower minutes to cash in.  
With his barely mobile arms, a light scrubbing was all he could endure. At that rate it took close to 15 minutes for the water coming off of him to finally run clear. Once he was sure that his blood-curdling stench had at least decreased to tolerable levels, he switched off the shower.   
The bathroom was steamy, Watney could hear the now-comforting sound of the water reclaimer doing its job. He rummaged around until he found a towel and wrapped it around his waist. He turned around and in the small mirror on the wall, saw his own reflection for the first time in months.  
My god, he thought, I look like a starving child.  
Even through the many layers of thick bandages circling their way around his chest, each of his ribs was clearly visible. His usually boyish, happy face had lost its natural glow. His eyes and cheeks were deeply sunken into his face. He’d known that he was 41 potatoes away from starvation, but until now, until he could really see what had been happening to him, that fact hadn’t been able to sink in. He was 41 potatoes away from starving to death. Less than a week.  
His hands started shaking, he had to lean against the wall to stay upright. After taking several deep breaths he managed to get himself under control.  
Still shaking, he realized that he didn’t have anything to put on. He took a deep breath and opened the door, ready to, ready to, he didn’t really know what. He supposed that the first step would be to find some clothes.  
Luckily for him, some kind soul aboard the Hermes had been thinking ahead of him. Folded neatly in a pile just outside the small bathroom were his University of Chicago hoodie and favorite grey sweatpants. He quickly stepped back into the bathroom and pulled them both on. As he tugged the sweatshirt over his head he inhaled deeply. Really it just smelled like Hermes, but he liked to imagine that it smelled like home, Chicago, Houston, DC, everywhere that he had lived and trained.   
He smiled when he realized that he wouldn’t have to put on another flight suit or EVA suit or the godforsaken uniforms that NASA required them to wear during surface operations for another 211 days. (Well, unless Hermes malfunctioned and he, the mechanical engineer had to go and fix it.) But the point is, he could wear whatever the hell he wanted. He could stay in these sweatpants forever if he chose too.  
He smiled. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. He stepped out of the bathroom with full intent to go and thank the crew again, but his overload of adrenaline had started to wear off and he was swaying where he stood, fighting to keep his eyes open.  
Well, he reasoned, the crew will be here for 211 more days, he could thank them later. For now he needed a nap.  
He managed to trudge back to the cot in Beck's/Martinez’s room. He climbed under the covers, smiling as he did so, and Mark Watney, King of Mars, fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.  
…..  
When Mark finally woke up he felt better than he had in months. Admittedly, “better than he had in months” was still not very good at all, but hey! At least he wasn't on Mars anymore.  
The thought made him happy. It really put everything into perspective. Sure, his ribs hurt, but he wasn’t on Mars! Yes, he wouldn’t be back on earth for another 7 months but at least he wasn’t on Mars!  
Really he knew he shouldn’t ever complain about anything ever again (not on Mars. Yay!) but his ribs really did hurt. Finally, he mustered up the strength to sit up. Martinez’s bed was empty. Watney couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anxiety at the thought.  
Logically, he knew that he was safe aboard Hermes, his crew was all here with him, they didn’t leave him abandoned and alone on that planet. But, his hands were shaking again, his heart was racing.  
He looked around the small quarters, just to assure himself that he wasn’t on Mars, that he was safe, or, at least as safe as you could be plunging through space as fast as humans physically could. As he glanced around the room his eyes caught on a note resting by his feet.  
Watney,  
You’ve been out for 5 days now. I’ve had you hooked up to an IV, and getting you all sorts of meds. I’ll brief you on all of them later. When you wake up stay where you are, DOCTOR’S ORDERS. You can use your headset to call me and I’ll come help you.  
-Beck  
Next to where the note had been lay one of the headsets that NASA required the crew to wear at all times. Before Mars, Watney thought they were stupid and unnecessary, the ship was small enough that all you had to do was talk in above-normal tones for everyone to hear you, but now Mark was grateful for the headset. He could directly communicate with everybody at all times. It was a luxury he never had on Mars.  
He put the headset on and glanced down at his arm. He couldn’t help but notice that he was not hooked up to any sort of IV, though he could see where he had been.  
He took this as an invitation to ignore “DOCTOR'S ORDERS” as Beck had so eloquently put it. If there was nothing physically tethering him to his bed (as an IV would have) he saw no reason to stay there. As terrible as he still felt, he needed to see his crew, the five minutes they’d had together when he had first boarded Hermes was not nearly enough. Also, maybe seeing them could help with the slight anxiety that he was still feeling.  
He threw his feet to the floor, noticing that they were still in Mars gravity. As he walked away from his room and towards the rec/kitchen area he turned on the microphone on his headset, setting it to broadcast to the whole crew.  
“Helooooo Ares III. Did you miss me?”  
He entered the kitchen just as Martinez said “no.” Whatever witty retort he had planned was interrupted by Beck’s exasperated “What are you doing out of bed?”   
Watney waited to respond until after he plopped himself down in between Johansson and Vogel. He laced his fingers together on top of the small table.  
“Well, doctor,” he exaggerated the word in the way he knew would irritate Beck the most, “you said in the lovely, heartfelt note you left me that I was hooked up to an IV. I am very clearly not hooked up to an IV so I took that as a sign that the rest of the note could be wrong as well. As you can imagine, I didn’t want to take any chances, what if you needed me in here right now, I mean your note was so clearly false-”  
Johanssen interrupted his soliloquy with a giggle. Beck glared at her. Watney smiled.  
The small sysop was curled in her chair, the hood of her charcoal grey sweatshirt obscuring part of her face. Only a few strands of her auburn hair hung out. The shadows obscuring her features reminded Watney of- of-  
The flight suits were hugging their bodies. They were being bombarded with dust and sand. The visors of their helmets cast shadows over their faces. Watney and Johanssen walked side by side fighting against the wind-  
“I unhooked you from the IV last night, you would have seen that if you had read the rest of the note.”  
Beck was talking but Watney didn’t hear it, his eyes locked on Johanssen and he took a sharp intake of breath. His hand grabbed the cool metal table as his whole body started to shake.   
Mark squeezed his eyes shut. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain he knew he was safe in the Hermes with his crew. He could feel the cold table beneath his fingertips, feel the warmth of Johanssen and Vogel beside him. But he could also feel the confining inner layer of his flight suit, hear the raging sandstorm around him.   
The communications dish tore through suit and skin. He heard Johanssen’s terrified scream of “Watney!” before everything went black.  
He was shaking and sweating and not all of the moisture on his face could be credited to the sweat. Watney kept his eyes closed tight. One hand remained on the table, the other curled around his abdomen, clutching a wound that was no longer there. He was curled up in something close to the fetal position, his knees almost touching his forehead.  
He felt a firm hand grasp his shoulder.   
“Watney, Watney, Come back to us. Watney?” Becks soothing voice drifted off and the doctor shot a significant look at Commander Lewis. Neither of them knew what to do.  
Watney felt Beck’s hand lift off his shoulder. He opened his eyes as his own hand shot out to grab Beck’s once more. He took a great rasping breath as the room swam back into focus. The rest of the crew were all on their feet staring at him with concern.   
“Are you back?” Beck asked.  
Watney took another deep breath before nodding. He folded his arms and laid his head on the table. Another hand was placed on his shoulders, then another, and another. Soon every member of Ares III had physical contact with Mark Watney. His breathing began to settle, his shaking subsided.  
Watney lifted his head, tears in his eyes. He stood up unsure of what he was trying to accomplish by doing so. Johanssen threw her arms around him, crying almost as hard as Watney himself. Lewis soon joined them along with Martinez, Beck, and Vogel. Watney, in the middle of the hug began to let out some of the stress that had been burning a hole through him for nearly 18 months. Tear after tear fell down his face unheeded. After some time the crew could hear Watney muttering two nearly unintelligible words.   
“Thank you. Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not totally sure what I am going to do with this story but I'm hoping to cover the entire journey home.   
> I am not Andy Weir but I did take a quote from his book.


End file.
